The Sound of Silence
by Jazz4
Summary: Hoshi uncovers a mysterious distress call and strange happenings occur. *CHAPTER 6 UP - Trip and T'Pol go undercover, and Trip overcomes his prejudices*.
1. Take Photos, Leave Footprints

Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: Jazz

Category: General

Rating: PG 

Disclaimer: Characters owned by Paramount. I'll return them at the end. Promise.

Summary: The crew unearth a distress call and mysterious happenings abound. Really a series of character studies, various POV, held together by a shadow of a plot. Special cameo appearance by Porthos. This is my first fic so I am still finding my feet. 

(Special Author's Note: Hope no one minds the tense too much. Writing in first person was like pulling teeth out, but the more I got into it the easier it became. Enjoy!)

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 1:

Take Photos, Leave Footprints

Am I all words, and never 

_the protector of men? The_

_Angel who cries with softest_

_voice, shall never know Peace. _

_She shall forever speak_

_In tongues._

It starts with a greeting.

Well, that's what I hope it starts with. All languages are different, but in my experience the first words that initiate first contact tend to be a greeting. In fact, at the earliest stage I am not even _thinking_ about opening my mouth to offer up some sort of _hello_. What I do is study the body language; a truly expressive shell which protects the vocal harmonics underneath. Only then, when I am sure that the other party will be receptive to conversation, do I speak.

This process is my job. Establishing a connection between species. Melding the awkwardness, the incompatible together. 

Jon used to think that I analysed myself too deeply, and that by doing so I would pick apart invisible holes. But knowing what I do, knowing the _how_ and _why _in intricate detail, becomes a sort of meditation for me.

I need it to be there. The rest of the crew needs it to be there. I know that now.

There was a time when I didn't.

But I'm digressing. Let me take you back three months, to a conversation over breakfast and a trip into a cloud . . .

****

"Hoshi?"

I look up from my plate to find Travis hovering at the table with two very full cups of coffee. Quickly I secure the one in his nearest hand and take a tentative sip. I watch him take his seat and do the same.

"Well?"

He takes another sip. "It's like I said before. When you've grown up on a space vessel you become deaf to the sounds the engines make. Fast. It's the quiet places that freak _me_ out. What you're talking about I can't hear. It registers the same place in my brain as do…I don't know…" Travis pauses, and then snaps his fingers. "Vowels and consonants in yours. Something you never think about."

This has been our conversation throughout breakfast. It had started out with my yawning over poached eggs. Travis became concerned over my apparent tiredness, mixed together, I now admit, with a degree of tetchiness, which led to my spiel into insomnia.

_You see, it's the constant background noise,_ I explain. Or more to the point, the _fluctuating levels_ of background noise. It is excruciatingly difficult at times to concentrate on my work.

So I sigh, and smile wanly into my coffee. "Thank you, Mr. Space Boomer. I guess it takes time. I've gone way past my previous posting in regard to days spent travelling in space. We're up to – what? A month?" I see him hide a smirk. "My mind is still unravelling."

"And these machines still can't do a decent cup of java." Travis drains his mug and shudders briefly at the aftertaste. "Eugh." Suddenly his eyes focus on something behind me. "Wow. Now that's what I call a pretty cloud."

I turn around in my seat and peer out through the window. Out of the black, wisps of red and orange and purple rest serenely in the blanket of space. They look the picture of calm, like smoke from one of T'Pol's meditation candles. I love nebulas. They remind me of the plants in the tropical fish tank I have in my university apartment back home. As I watch, the wisps of colour seem to tremble, like a jewel set in ebony, and even though I know they are far away, my fingers want to gather them up. Their precious state is immediately calming.

"It's big," I comment, more to myself.

"Think the captain will stop and let us take a closer look?"

Against my apparent resolve to be grumpy this morning, I manage a smile at Travis' enthusiasm. It immediately strikes me as being out of place; he who has grown up in space should not be so eager. "You must have seen countless nebulas," I say. "But as to your question – only if Captain Archer's feeling generous. It's not like we haven't heaps of jobs to complete, and all the time in the world to be exploring for enjoyment at every sector."

Travis nods at the colourful wisps, which are gathering in larger and larger clumps the further we pass. "I don't know that I've seen one that big, though."

Suddenly I feel my lousy mood dissolving. "Hey, maybe you can name it," I say, patting him on the shoulder, and together we pick up our breakfast trays and leave for the bridge. 

****

As it turns out Travis gets his wish; Jon agrees to stop and take a shuttle pod into the nebula. But it won't be all sightseeing. We'll have a chance to get data on one of the biggest nebulas encountered by a Starfleet vessel. 

I say Starfleet vessel, because we soon learn that the nebula is not unknown. 

"Eight months ago a Vulcan ship explored this very area," T'Pol says, sitting neat as a pin at her station. "They did not find it necessary to dwell upon this particular nebula, as it offered no further knowledge about the phenomena which did not already exist in their databases."

Travis looks up from the helm. "Did they give it a name, Sub-Commander?"

"It was designated PUV Iona-7."

I can't see Travis' face from where I'm sitting, but I almost hear his eyes roll. "Very poetic."

"Vulcan scientists do not consider poetics when assigning identification."

Jon has been silent throughout this exchange, but at this he smiles. "Of course." I detect the sarcasm, good-natured though it is, in his voice. T'Pol simply nods, serene and detached, in that Vulcan way of her's which is so subtle most people miss it. But I see it, like I see and hear more than any one crewmember on this ship, except perhaps the Science Officer herself.

But Travis doesn't let go. "Captain, it would be nice to have a poke about," he offers hopefully. _He hasn't lost his eagerness yet._

The captain nods, but doesn't offer Travis anything further. We draw as close to the nebula – sorry, _PUV Iona-7_ – as we can be, without actually entering it. "Bring us to a stop, Ensign." Jon sits up straighter in his chair. "T'Pol, how safe is it currently for a pod to go in for a closer look?"

"I am detecting minimal atmospheric activities within the nebula, Captain," offers T'Pol, sitting up from her view port. "There would be little danger in taking a shuttle pod in," she continues, levitating a single eyebrow in typical Vulcan fashion, "if that is what you intend to do."

_Do I detect a hint of irritation, T'Pol?_ I glance at her but she has turned back to her monitors. Across from her Malcolm Reed speaks for the first time. "Sir, I can concur with the Sub-Commander." The side of his mouth lifts into a smile as he adds, "I see no security risks in having a 'poke about', as Mr. Mayweather so eloquently phrased it."

"Let's go in then." Jon rises from his seat. "Hoshi, Malcolm, you're with me. T'Pol, you have the bridge."

Walking out behind Malcolm, I offer a commiserating glance to Travis. _Lone pilot, left behind._

****

"It's bigger than I anticipated, Sir," Malcolm says, peering out of the forward screen. We enter Iona-7 and slow to half-impulse in order to begin taking scans. Jon and Malcolm busy themselves with gathering the most important data, but for a long moment I do nothing but gaze at the nebula. That such a huge mass should be so still, calm like great beast asleep, is hard to imagine until you get up close. With my earpiece in, I crane my neck and follow the line of colour peeling off into the distance. All around the pod lies a sieve of colour: red and purple mainly, but also spots of yellow. 

And then…all of a sudden I hear noise – the clouds are singing; a murmur deep underneath the purr of the air filterers inside the cabin, deep underneath the white noise of the monitors. 

My expression must change, because both Jon and Malcolm stop what they are doing and look at me. 

"Hoshi?" Jon asks, concerned.

I blink, and like a wave receding, the noise – the _singing_ – fades from hearing. "I'm not sure, Captain. I heard …" How can I describe it? That I heard the clouds singing? That their notes churned together like an unresolved counterpoint, and left me speechless? _Come on, Hoshi, that's sounding just a bit ridiculous._

I force myself to finish. "Would you believe I heard singing?"

Something ticks momentarily in Jon's eyes. "Singing?" he repeats.

_He doesn't believe me,_ I think, and feel sudden heat in my cheeks. But Malcolm nods, and says mysteriously, "'The angels sigh songs in tumultuous waves'." Jon and I regard him, confused, as he explains, "Deveraux, early twenty-second century poet. He wrote of the night sky singing. Though I doubt Ensign Sato heard angels."

I smile at him, and feel the warm blush fade. "No, not angels," I say. "Thankyou for the suggestion, though, Lieutenant."

Jon takes a glance at my station monitor. "Angels or not," he says, "I'd still like to know what you heard. Can you try and pick it up again?"

I reinsert the earpiece, straining to pick up the sound. But all I hear is normal, sub-space noise. I close my eyes and deepen my concentration. Noise inside the pod ceases. The blackness of my thoughts is pinpointed into one sense – my hearing – and my breathing slows. But still nothing. I open my eyes and see the men gazing, waiting, expecting me to give them something.

"It's gone," I say to them. "I'm sorry." And Jon turns the pod around, back to Enterprise.

****

Later, after we have debriefed and are coming off duty, Malcolm stops me in the corridor.

"Don't apologise, Ensign. Don't apologise for doing your job." 

He turns and leaves me, still in my movement. I pause, watching him go, and think again of the song I heard, that I alone heard, and wonder if I had imagined it. 

I return to my quarters, and fall asleep looking at the clouds.


	2. I, Captain

Disclaimer: Usual (see chapter 1)

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 2:

I, Captain

Can a single man lead a hundred, but follow a hundred laws? 

At night my mind races to catch up with my days. It is better this way. In the darkness I can be as subjective as I want and no one can know. 

In the corner of the room I hear Porthos sigh in his basket, and wonder what dogs dream. _Do dogs dream? _I smile and let sleep wash over me.

****

The next morning while dressing I look out the window. The nebula fills my area of sight, magnificent and still. So still. We will leave the ship here for a few hours. Yesterday's events jump out of my memory, and I remember Hoshi's claim that she heard singing out there. 

When I arrive on the bridge I find her already at work. Earpiece in hand, she has an expression of such dogged concentration that I resist interrupting her. At last she looks up and spies my amused look. 

"Sorry, Captain, but I had to try again. It's been disturbing me all night." She bites her lip in annoyance, and adds softly, to herself, "I _know_ I heard something."

"It's okay, Hoshi."

She removes her earpiece and leans back with a sigh. I leave her and move to where T'Pol is sitting, analysing the data from _Iona-7._ "How's it looking, Sub-Commander?"

Withdrawing from her viewer, T'Pol regards me for a moment before saying, "There is no further information I feel we need from this nebula, Captain." Her hands rest lightly on the console. "It would be unproductive for Enterprise to remain here for much longer."

I think of Hoshi's songs. "I understand. But I kind of promised Hoshi some more time to search for…" Perhaps it wouldn't be good to reveal to T'Pol the particulars _exactly_. "For an unidentifiable sound she picked up." 

At my explanation, I know my Science Officer is thinking disapproving thoughts, but she doesn't speak them. Instead she tilts her head in acceptance. "As you wish, Captain."

"Captain, good morning."

I turn as Reed steps from the lift, and moves to sit at his station. "Sub-Commander. Ensign." This is to T'Pol, who does not reply, and to Travis, who does.

"Morning, Lieutenant."

Reed peers at Hoshi, who has her back turned away, her eyes fixed somewhere unspecific. He gives me a glance and I shake my head gently. Reed takes a quick look at the forward view screen, where the nebula is on display for all to see. "So, how long are we thinking of staying here?" he says. "Not that I dislike the view, lovely and, er, _nebulous_ as it is, but …"

"But you're itching to keep moving," I finish. "Don't worry, Malcolm. I've requested Travis keep us here for another few hours; just to give Hoshi a chance to perhaps pick up the…sounds she heard yesterday again."

"I see." Reed smiles slightly.

"Okay, okay, you've had your fun, gentlemen." Hoshi pulls off her earpiece. She sighs again, rubs at her eyes, and sits back in her chair. "Captain?"

"Yes?"

She adopts a rueful expression and shrugs. "You may as well lay in a course right now. If all you're waiting for is for my mysterious song to reappear, then it's not worth it. I've just about given up hope that whatever I heard in the nebula yesterday is no more. Maybe I imagined it. And if I did, then I'm sorry, and-"

"Hoshi! It's all right." Her words run over one another. "We'll stick to our schedule." And with this I turn towards the lift. "I'm starting my rounds of the ship. Sub-Commander T'Pol has the bridge."

As I wait for the lift to open, T'Pol says, "A 'mysterious song', Ensign?" 

I step in, and the doors begin to close just as Hoshi, with a sigh, attempts to detail her conundrum to the Vulcan.

_Good luck, Hoshi,_ is all I can think. _Good luck._

****

Occasionally when I have the run of the ship to myself, say, for example, very early in the morning or late at night when all good officers should be tucked up in bed, I like to listen to her hum. With the corridors to myself, I jog the perimeter circuit, Porthos scampering ahead of me, chasing imaginary cats around corners. I take in the sounds she makes, like a well-oiled machine, and think of what my father would have made of her. 

Pride, so much pride. Well, I can live this mission for both of us.

I take the route to engineering. Within reach of the doors I slow my step, listening to the warp engines. The day I first encountered one of these I remember that the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. All that power, _raw_ power; it amazed me then, and still amazes me. So you can imagine that I like to know they're working every day. Let the engineers polish and maintain them; only let the captain know they're okay.

Speaking of engineers, I spot my chief immediately upon stepping inside. That is, I spot his boots. Trip is lying underneath one of the cooling towers, speaking in muffled tones to another engineer who is passing him tools. As I move towards them the young crewman sees me and straightens.

"Sam, pass me the number three driver, would ya?"

I take the tool myself and squat down. "Commander," I say.

"Thanks…Ah, Captain." I back up and Trip slides out into view. He suppresses a grin. "I really wish you'd refrain from sneakin' up on a guy like that." He reaches back and makes a final adjustment before standing up. Handing the tool back, he says, "Okay, Sam, you shouldn't have any trouble running those diagnostics now."

We walk towards the warp engines in the centre of the room, Trip wiping his hands on a rag. "We still hanging round this nebula, Captain?" he asks.

"A few hours more, yes."

"I'm only saying, because I'd kinda like to give the engines a run at maximum warp. We haven't had a chance to in a while, and it wouldn't hurt them to burn a bit."

I stop and lean against the railing, feeling the metal hum gently under the pulse of the warp drive. "When we took the pod out yesterday Hoshi claimed she heard the nebula singing."

Trip blinks. "Singing."

"I know, it sounded strange to Malcolm and myself at the time, but she was adamant. So I've given her more time to investigate. To be honest, Trip, I'm a little curious as well."

"Well, stranger things have happened. But a singing nebula," Trip shrugs. "That's gotta get anyone curious."

After Trip has given me his department overnight summary I leave and continue my rounds. I've just finished consulting with Dr. Phlox in sickbay when I get a call from Hoshi:

"Captain, I think you should come up and hear this." Over the comm I can just make out a noise in the background.

Phlox stops what he is doing and listens as well. "Curious sound, Captain," he says.

I nod. "I think Ensign Sato's found our mystery voice, Doctor." And with that I head back to the bridge.

****

The bridge is alive with song.

And it's loud. I have to raise my voice above the sound. "Hoshi?"

"Captain, it just appeared suddenly. It was like I had dropped in on some special frequency." Hoshi is frantically trying to adjust the sound, her hands a whirr on her screen. 

There is a painfully high wail, forcing us to cover our ears. "Can you maybe kill the volume?" Travis shouts from the helm.

"I'm trying! Captain, the -" Suddenly the noise drops and Hoshi is left yelling in mid-sentence. She starts again. "Captain, the sound is different to what I heard yesterday, I'm sure of it."  
  


"In what way?"

The wailing is still going on in the background, but mercifully quieter. It is like an atonal whale song. "More urgent," Hoshi says. "If I can put it that way."

I can feel the beginnings of a headache twist in the space behind my eyes. This is getting us nowhere. "Ensign, 'urgent' isn't exactly helpful."

Hoshi frowns. "I mean…whatever, whomever this noise is coming from, it seems to me that it's –" she listens further. "In pain, Captain. Like a wounded animal."

"Some injury," remarks Reed.

From her science station T'Pol regards the communications officer with a raised brow. I notice that she looks as tense as a Vulcan can possibly look, and suddenly think how excruciating the high sound must have been to her superior hearing. "That would not be possible, Ensign," she says. "It is illogical to apply animal characteristics to an aural phenomena."

I sit down, as Hoshi says, "Captain, I do think what I heard yesterday, and what we are hearing now, are coming from the same source; I'm not challenging that. But the nature of communication has changed. This sounds like a distress call."

I massage the back of my neck. "Okay, so if it's turned into a distress call, can we get a source of origin?"

"I am currently trying to establish that fact, Captain," T'Pol says, glancing back from her view port. "But the nebula is making the task difficult. I suggest we withdraw from it and attempt wider range scans from a safer distance."

"Fine. Travis, take us out."

As I wait for T'Pol to finish her scans, I catch something in the wailing which makes me sit up. It is slowing. Noticibly, like a wind-up toy which is losing its spring. Hoshi picks it up immediately. "The farther away we get the slower it becomes."

"What's the UT making of it?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "I've been trying that all this time, Captain, but to be realistic, we don't yet know if this is a language at all. For all we know it could be of machine origin."

"What do _you_ think it is?"

Hoshi shrugs. "I think it's someone trying to communicate." She then transfers the sound to her console, and we return to the familiar murmur of the engines. 

When we have distanced ourselves far enough, I order the ship to stop and turn to T'Pol. 

Vulcan eyes raise themselves from lines and numbers on the monitors. "I have located the source of the noise, Captain." T'Pol brings up a starchart on screen and I stand closer to see her point at a corner of the nebula. "There appears to be a ship. Precisely, the remains of one."

"Why didn't we pick this up when we were scanning at close range?"

"There are sections of this nebula which are particularly dense. It is highly likely that our scanners were unable to penetrate them."

There are times when I feel like all we do is move in circles. The question forms in my mouth as to why, then, are we seeing clearer from a distance than in close…but I decide against voicing it. I am reminded by this just how experimental our technology is, how we must adapt with what we have while we strive to better things. "Hoshi, any progress?"

Hoshi doesn't answer. Eyes closed, she is leaning forward, I assume listening intently. I touch her shoulder and she looks up with a start.   

"Captain." Her eyes are bright, but she looks grim. "I've got a translation."

She touches her console, and the noise returns, in english:

_"- Need help. We have a breach in both sections and are rapidly losing air. I repeat, if there are any vessels in close range, please assist us. We have casualties and need help. We have a breach –"_ Hoshi stops it mid-sentence. "That's all there is. It just repeats itself."

Casualties. A word I dread to hear, especially now, as the knowledge of death will certainly place many of the crew on edge; as captain I have to resist this, but it's difficult. I place myself far away from the synthesised english which runs in a loop through by head. T'Pol said remains. Remains almost certainly mean no survivors.

But I can't be certain until I have assured myself of this with my own eyes. 

I order Travis to return to the nebula, and the strands of colour shimmer closer, a wreath of petals upon a stormy headstone.


	3. Always Be Prepared

Disclaimer: Property of Paramount etc.

Author's Note: Here's the story, this time continued by Malcolm…(don't worry, I'll get to everyone eventually!)

Rating: PG (for one small swear word, and a bit of gore) 

The Sound of Silence

By Jazz

~~~

Part 3:

Always Be Prepared

For the hours I cannot be with you 

_my will shall guard you from_

_danger. Forgive me if I sleep on duty – _

_I am only human._

My grandfather had a saying: 'The butler always knows'. And I remember asking him, _Knows what?_ but that my mother scolded gently, and made me go outside and play with my sister. So I never found out. 

Years later, I joined the ranks of those men and women who strive to uncover the secrets of the stars; I became an armoury officer and a lieutenant, and there got the answer to Grandfather's homespun proverb. That to know the world around you, to anticipate what's ahead, is core to protecting others. One could even say it is core to living. But I prefer to think that an open mind will do wonders for that third eye; the thing in your mind that can see movement in still shadows. Which can foresee an attack from the unexpected corner.

Standing with the captain in the shuttle bay as we wait for the grappler to pull in the battered vessel from _Iona-7_, I reflect on this, and wonder if the crew of this vessel had anticipated _their_ outcome. 

I check that it is set down safely. About four times the size of one of our shuttle pods, there is barely room for it in the hanger.

"Okay." I nod to the Captain. "It's safe to go in." 

Commander Tucker and his team of engineers start going over the outer hull, while Captain Archer, Hoshi, Doctor Phlox and I stand before the hatch. None of us is looking forward to this: Sub-Commander T'Pol confirmed that the alien ship had a crew compliment of seven. All present, all deceased. As of how long she couldn't say, but I don't hold any doubts that what is inside won't be pretty. I examine the hatch. The metal is rough, charred, bone cold to the touch, and prematurely aged from the still vacuum in which we found it.

For a second in the pitted glass I catch our reflection, and then the hatch opens.

The stale air hits immediately, sour and fetid. Beside me Hoshi gags. "Breathe slowly through the mouth," I tell her. She nods, and the captain and I flick on flashlights.

We stand in what I assume to be the airlock. The inner door is half open, as if it was in the process of closing when the power was cut. I give it an experimental push and am surprised to find it slide noiselessly open. "I don't know about the exterior, but the inner mechanics seem to be functioning," I remark.

"Can we get power?" Hoshi asks.

"Trip's working on that as we speak." Archer aims his flashlight through the inner hatch and into the passage beyond. Slowly, we pass through. 

Once in we pause. I turn and look at the others. "Which way, sir?" There is bulkhead leading off both left and right, although our flashlights only extend so far.

Hoshi coughs again, fighting the smell. For my own sake I must admit it does dull the other senses, but frankly, you just have to grin and bear it. She points to the left, where the passage joins in a second door, this one open. "I think the…smell's coming from in there."

I go through first, and swing my flashlight across the pitch-black room.

There are chairs, monitors, a darkened view screen; the bridge, from what I can make out, seems to be relatively intact. More flashlights join mine and we slowly move through the room, searching for the crew. Poor Hoshi, who among our group seems to be suffering most from the heavy smell, ends up stumbling across the first, quite literally. There is a minor crash as she makes contact, falling over and pulling myself down with her in the process.

We land in a tangled heap, and for a moment my vision is filled completely with that of a face; unmistakably alien and completely lifeless. Eyes stare wide into mine - an alien mouth is parted intimately close, open in a final breath or word. I feel my stomach lurch. "Bloody hell…" The body is right beside me, a stinking carcass from which I attempt to move away, but Hoshi seems to have become all limbs, tangling like Medusa's coiled hair, and by the time we are on our feet the Captain and Phlox are closing in on us.

Hoshi pulls at her jacket, straightening it and her hair at the same time. "Sorry, Lieutenant," she says in a low voice. I pick up her data padd and hand it back with a nod. "It's okay, Ensign. No harm done."

"Maybe not to you." Archer catches the tail end of my sentence and swings his light onto the body at our feet. "But I'd say this one would disagree."

All of a sudden we are bathed in light, and I think, _Trip must have managed to get auxiliary power back on_. But I have little time to reflect on this fact when, after my eyes have adjusted to the change, I get to see the alien in full light.

Humanoid. Two legs, two arms, ten fingers, two ears…

…Three eyes.

Three. I hadn't noticed _that_ lying beside it a moment ago. Funny, you'd think three eyes would get my attention. Maybe it was the smell. 

Phlox kneels by the body and takes a scan. "He appears to have been dead for some time," he says after a moment, understating nicely. "To be exact, this individual has been lying here for just over 72 hours." His hands, encased in latex gloves, prod gently at the upper arm of the alien, where gashed material has opened up to reveal grey skin. I spot vivid bruises, liquid welts of ocean-blue like an oil spill on a grey, sleeping sea, and wince. Whatever this fellow went though, I can only hope it was fast. The doctor stands up and addresses Archer. "If you wish to find out what the cause of death was, I suggest we have this man transferred to sickbay."

I watch the Denobulan as he speaks and suspect that there is something he's not saying, or for some reason is unwilling to say in front of the rest of us. But if the captain sees this as well he does a good job of masking it; only replying, "Agreed. After we have accounted for the rest of the crew you have my permission to do that."

"Captain."

It's Hoshi, standing on the far side of the room. Her face is expressionless, but there is something about the way she is breathing – short, determined gasps – that makes every nerve in my body tingle with unease. Her eyes, fixed on whatever is at her feet, seem abnormally large, and when I reach her side I notice her hands tremble. Without moving her eyes she says in a whisper, "My God, what happened here?"

I follow her gaze to the ground. And my breath catches, painfully because suddenly, quite suddenly, my throat is dry as if from a hot desert wind. It seems to take an eternity for the captain and Phlox to join us, as if time had suddenly slowed in the face of unmistakable horror.

Three bodies lie at our feet. One man, one woman – 

- and the third, lying clasped at the breast of the female, an infant.

They look, to all intents and purposes, simply asleep. I realise with a pang that they probably gathered here in a group on purpose, in the hub of their vessel, knowing that death was imminent, but stretched to the edge of their resources, knowing also that all they could do was wait.

Archer's voice, when he breaks the silence, is heavy. "Let's make this as unobtrusive as possible. Doctor…"

As Phlox begins to speak, I suddenly feel tired, as if a heaviness has draped itself upon me like a low cover of cloud. And so we got through the motions, covering the rest of the ship, observing, scanning, saying little. We find the remaining crew members in various places; in the tiny cargo hold, in the even tinier galley. Somewhere in my brain I am taking notes – that there is a full compliment of food in the hold; that the ship carries very little in the way of phasers; that whoever designed the interior lines did a very respectable job in such a confined space; that the crew had begun converting one storage area into a rudimentary hydroponics bay. 

But the image of the child is imprinted in my mind, and will be, I suspect, for some time. 

**** 

Captain Archer calls a meeting for all senior staff, to be held after Phlox has gathered enough data to make a suggestion on the cause of death. Meanwhile, he orders myself and Commander Tucker to go over the vessel with a fine tooth comb. "I want to know how these people died, and under what circumstances," he says to me before leaving with Hoshi for the bridge. "Turn everything over if you have to, but we need to get some answers."

_Some answers. Right._ I hope it's occurred to him how long a job like that might take. "Sir, with respect, the ship is pretty much written off. I doubt we'll salvage much from the computer-"

"Just do it." The captain's parting shot is partly cut off by the lift's closing doors.

Trip, standing beside me in the hall, lets out a long breath. "We're going to need more than a fine tooth comb," he says with a sigh. And so we turn back to the shuttle bay, back once more to the battered vessel which, in a perfect world, never should have ended up there, to begin the long search for answers to questions which never should have been asked.

TBC


	4. Doctor, Doctor

Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: Jazz

Rating: PG 

Disclaimer: The usual rap. I'm still borrowing the characters. They've been shoved down the back of a desk draw while I wait for inspiration to strike.

Author's Apologies: This chapter is a little short. I didn't really want to dwell in alien death too long. Sorry.

Author's Note: We return to our main storyline, via the scenic route. I'm still on character cycle. _Number 98, Doctor Phlox, you're meal is ready…_

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 4:

Doctor, Doctor

When somebody meets me for the first time, I find that a certain awkwardness lingers. Not as indifference or revulsion – heavens, no – but I believe it has something to do with my temper, and this is especially apparent in humans. Other species, to a degree…the Vulcans, bless their logical hearts, found my eternal chatter so off putting that they (or so I am told) almost fought each other to get to the pen that signed my attendance away onto a new starship. I don't mind. They might preach the teachings of Surak through each and every pore, but for all their stubborn logic, they are a good, peacefully minded species, and I shall be forever grateful for their establishment of the Interspecies Medical Exchange. 

And now I find myself on a human vessel. So far it has been fascinating, to say the least. I have learnt so much about these people in such a small stretch of time. Of their longing for exploration and for first contact, which, to be honest, they seek out with a fair lack of self-restraint. Of their fondness for nostalgia, evidenced weekly in the cinema. Of their at times pondering and awkward social interactions. (I could go on and on about this. But let me just say that while compared to the Vulcans they are the embodiment of openness, placed aside my own species humans are like tied-tongued monks.) When Jonathon Archer met me for the first time it was a quick exchange of words over the unconscious form of a Klingon warrior – so quick that there was no opportunity for awkwardness to linger. I think it was some hours later when I sensed he was a little concerned; concern that rose from the fact that my cheerfulness was perhaps rubbing off on him. I like to think that it did, and from that point he and his crew looked upon me not as a curious entity who fills his sickbay with a menagerie of worms and bats, but as a physician who heals by sharing a little of his happiness with his patients.  

But they are still human, and I am still Denobulan, and it is their emotions that astound. I say this because of the behaviour I witnessed on board the salvaged alien vessel; when I saw Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato standing at the foot of where the mother and child lay, the looks in their eyes was that of terrible anguish mixed with that which humans give so freely – compassion. I saw it in the eyes of Captain Archer, but in his there was added a flash of determination, of wilful dedication to the cause he outlined to us as we stood there and then in the alien bridge: that we would find out what happened to these people, and how it came to be that their ship ended up as flotsam in this huge nebulous expanse.

I think they saw something in that ship which placed fear in their minds. Not of death, but of what it must have felt like to look death in the face and succumb to its numbing brilliance. In fact-

"Doctor?"

In sickbay, Elizabeth Cutler interrupts my thoughts. She stands over the body closest to me – behind her is an area closed off but which I know contains the remaining corpses, sealed in the dull greyness that are Starfleet body bags. She eyes me with a calmness which I immediately find comforting, and says, "I've finished prepping the body. Are you…?"

"Ready to begin?" I let one corner of my mouth curl upwards. "Well, I wouldn't be much of a physician if I wasn't, now would I?"

At this she smiles, and I begin working.

****

The male I conclude to have died from his injuries. He had suffered from third degree plasma burns and smoke inhalation which, while I will have to wait for Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker to finish examining the vessel, I can only assume were the result of internal damage to the ship. Elizabeth takes my gloves from me, zips up the body bag and looks back to the sealed off area. 

She says, "What do you think? Are you going to find the same injuries on the others?" and hands me a fresh pair of gloves. There is a weariness in her voice, of which I am certain comes from a mixture of exhaustion and sympathy for what we have to do to these individuals who once lived and breathed themselves.

"Well…" I pause to ease the latex over my cuffs. "I have only just finished examining one individual among seven deceased. However, while it is early, from what I observed of the bodies initially, I have to suggest that it _appears_ they all died more or less in the same manner. Their ship was damaged beyond repair, Elizabeth. We can only imagine what they went through." 

So she wheels the next one into the centre of the room, and I know, before the zipper is pulled down, before the overhead lights expose to the world another life lost and empty to all but the souls it has since joined, that the shape under the grey expanse is that of the female we found on the bridge. She with the child clung to her torso as if pulled by their own gravity. Here she is alone, and I am struck by how small and delicate she is. Her body is stiff, disjointed and ungainly in death, but under the raw skin and the singed hair, under the bruises and snaking cuts, her skin is smooth and lightly mottled, her walnut coloured hair is plaited, and I believe, quite strongly, that she would have been beautiful in life.

I start removing clothing, undoing clasps and pulling up sleeves. And then I find it - a data chip, buried deep in one of her pockets. 

Elizabeth peers over my shoulder. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," I reply, turning the small item over in my palm. "Call the Captain. I would say this constitutes as evidence."

I listen as Elizabeth thumbs the communication switch. "Sickbay to the bridge."

"Archer here."

"Captain, the doctor has found some sort of data chip in the clothing of one of the bodies."

There is a pause, and I picture Captain Archer shifting in his seat, his interest piqued. "I see," he says. "Thankyou, Crewman. I'll send Hoshi down to pick it up. Archer out." 

I return to the female, and this time I particularly take note of the damage to her lungs. "You weren't just breathing in smoke, were you?" I murmur, running a medical scanner over her torso. "It was something that knocked you out…" Trailing off, I notice that Elizabeth is eyeing me strangely from the other side of the room. 

"Do you always talk to your cadavers, Doctor?" 

"Only when they appear lonely," I say, smiling, but it is a smile half-dipped in sadness. 

With a sudden thump the doors open, spitting Hoshi Sato into sickbay like an exclamation mark into our conversation. I eye her curiously. "That was quick, Ensign. Did you run all the way down?"

The petit communications officer rewards me with a scowl, which does nothing for her face but is countered rather sweetly by a wave of one hand. I am aware that she has back catalogued a remarkably long list in my native tongue, and know she could all but cut my remark in two with goodness knows how many Denobulan foul words. "You said you found a data chip," says Hoshi, regaining her composure.

I nod towards Elizabeth. "It's on the table, there."

Hoshi walks over and picks it up. She examines it in silence, before saying, "This is the only one you've found, right?"

"So far, yes."

"Okay, um, leave this with me. I'll have a look, but I can't guarantee anything." She turns to leave, and then adds, "I'll let you know what I find. If you happen to come across any more-"

"I'll let you or the captain know." I nod and turn back to my work. "Thankyou, Hoshi."

But she lingers, watching as my gloved fingers press the scarred tissue at the alien woman's neck, and in a low voice I hear her say, "I wonder what her name was…" 

I turn to answer, but Hoshi is gone, lost in the purr of the closing doors.

****

For a further three hours I examine the bodies, one after another, until all seven lie zipped up once again, and pulled away from view. With a methodical technique learnt from years of experience I catalogue injury after injury, gather data, hypothesize, list my findings and collate evidence until I have a report spaning many pages and containing what I hope constitutes as answers. But still these are answers pertaining to medical quandaries. Whatever the hard evidence may be, it remains just one part of the whole picture.

With data padd in hand I leave sickbay under Elizabeth's charge, and head to the bridge. 

TBC


	5. Diary of a Lone Pilot

Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: Jazz

Rating: PG 

Disclaimer: Characters owned by Paramount. 

Summary: Travis continues the story, and the crew make some discoveries.

Author's Note: I was forced to straighten out the plot in this one. As an aside, I must admit I'm really bad at writing anything scientific or medical. Even with the plainest ideas I imagine there's someone out there howling with laughter at 'that silly writer's' excuse for technobabble, but I soldiered on regardless. Also I wasn't sure if anyone ever used the term 'black box' in the trek universe, so if I'm wrong please let me know.

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 5:

Diary of a Lone Pilot

You want to know something? I've lived in space all my life, but I never tire of it. Never. The day I look out a porthole and feel indifferent to what I see outside will be the day dad puts his spaceboots on the wrong feet. It won't happen, not until both of us are so far gone that space turns white and the stars twinkle black.

And yet now I've got the job of piloting Starfleet's finest into unchartered waters…there's something amiss. You know like some days you wake up down and not even the best breakfast can put things to rights? Yeah, it happens to me sometimes. You wouldn't know it looking at me, but there you go.

Anyway, all I'm saying is that sometimes it's frustrating being here at the conn all the time. Don't get me wrong – I love to pilot, and Enterprise is the _crème de la crème_ of piloting. When I say this baby can move some I'm not kidding. But I love to get out; take the helm of one of the shuttlepods and go on away missions. Experience space outside the trade routes I was brought up on.

But there's also the days when I'm quite happy on the bridge, keeping the seatbelt on, as it were. I'm no maverick.__

And then there's the times when I get back into my chair and feel the controls humming like a souped up motor, and I wouldn't change it for the world. I'm a pilot. I was born to it, and right now I've got the best seat in the house.

****

While we are stationary I generally have little to do except update previous course logs and occasionally give Hoshi a hand at the comm. Being just like this as we maintain our position beside the nebula, I'm the first to arrive at the situation room for the captain's briefing. I have to say there's a definite spooky feeling hanging about, and the crewmen I've spoken to around the decks and in the mess over the last few days are all thinking the same thing – that something bad happened here, but that no one wants to speculate as to what. Some think we're in danger just hanging around, and ought to high tail out of here. It's like walking on eggshells.

I remember the expression on Hoshi's face when she returned to the bridge before retiring, with the captain's permission, to examine the device Doctor Phlox found. It was like she had put on a mask; that she'd seen something that she didn't want to talk about. The way Captain Archer watched her leave, a kind of frustrated curiosity mixed with sympathy, told me his thought's echoed my own.

Anyway, to the debriefing. I actually like being the first to arrive, because I get to see everyone come in. I'm the ever observant guy that no one sees. Well…maybe just the observant guy that everyone does see because he's sitting at one end of the table by himself. But you know what I mean. When someone enters I like to think I can read their mood in the first seconds that pass as the doors close behind them. Take for example right now. First comes Captain Archer, striding to the head of the table, a slight frown creasing his forehead and a firm set to his mouth, but he leans back in his chair and spreads his hands on the table in a manner which I can only describe as relaxed. Then T'Pol comes in, and almost immediately on her tail is Commander Tucker. Trip's saying something to her and as usual the Vulcan seems to be ignoring him point blank. But she's listening; I can see it. It's in the way she inclines her head ever so slightly to the side, as if she's allowing him her full attention, but knows that Trip lacks the coherence to grasp her body language. So he gets a head of steam up thinking she's ignoring him out of spite, and spends the next thirty seconds sitting in moody silence with arms crossed. Seriously. There's something going on there. 

Next comes Malcolm, who enters briskly and drops with a huff into the seat beside me. He looks exhausted, but manages to hide it pretty well. Actually, both he and Trip are covered in grime, a fact which does not escape T'Pol, who, sitting beside the engineer, shifts her eyes to gaze at his grease splattered palms with a mixture of contempt and something I can't identify, but I'm interrupted in my observation of this by the entrance of Doctor Phlox and Hoshi. Hoshi nods at me with a smile, and slips into the seat beside Malcolm. The doctor takes the last seat beside Captain Archer, and we're set.

The captain sits up straight and I mimic him, placing both hands on the polished table. 

"Okay, before I go round and get any updates, I'll just rundown where we are at present." Archer scans the table, meeting everyone's eye. We give him our full attention, including eventually Trip, who manages to finally stop fidgeting after T'Pol has given him a glare sharp enough to curl his eyelashes. "When you're ready, Trip…"

"Sorry, Cap'n."

Archer begins handing around pads. "This should give you all an overview of the doctor's findings. I'll let him run us through it, and then I'll hand you over to Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed, who have finished their examination of the alien ship. But before that, I think T'Pol has gained some information on just who these people are." He nods at the Vulcan who stands and activates a viewscreen. There is a pause and only when T'Pol is satisfied that she has our attention does she speak.

"I have been going through our databases and have found a number of entries, made by the Vulcan ship _V'Mor_ – incidentally the same ship which first catalogued this nebula – who were conducting a small research station on an outpost some distance from here." T'Pol brings up a series of images, some of head shots, some group shots. But all of walnut skinned, long haired humanoids, in intricately woven clothing. I realise these images would be familiar to people like Malcolm, Hoshi and especially the doctor, but to me they're entirely new. But I have barely time to digest them before T'Pol has brought up a map of a small star system. "But that outpost lay in a trade route belonging to two co-habiting species: the Skori and Boran," T'Pol says, and for some reason it strikes me then and there that T'Pol would be way more approachable if she wasn't so ramrod straight. It's just a thought. 

I become uncomfortably aware that I'm beginning to daydream, and with some rapidity tune back in. "…I say co-habiting," T'Pol is saying, "but essentially the two are of single origin, with the Boran splitting into a separate faction. This was the reason the _V'Mor_ noted them in their database. Apparently this newly established trade route has been a mild source of disruption between the two. But it was only this which caused the Vulcans any inconvenience to their research; though post-warp these species are not instigators of any science or technology. From what I understand they are in the business of organic resources and generally live a life of…naturalistic tendencies."

Trip snorts, amused. "I think the word you're lookin' for there is _hippies,_ T'Pol." 

I smile, not only for the remark, but for the way T'Pol arches a single eyebrow in Trip's direction, before continuing. "Nevertheless, both species were still advanced enough technologically to operate a successful trade route."

"Until now," Malcolm says.

Archer frowns. "So now we know who they are, what about the crew we found. Were they Skori or Boran?"

"I think I can help you there, Captain." Doctor Phlox rises and replaces T'Pol in front of the viewscreen. He taps in a series of commands and immediately a three dimensional humanoid figure is displayed. "This is the first individual I examined. From what the sub-commander has revealed I can say with almost complete certainty that this male, as well as the other crewmembers, is one of the Skori. Do you see these clefts in the chin, jawbone and earlobe? They are consistent with the established shots of Skori individuals the Vulcans were so kind to catalogue." Phlox brings back the images from the Vulcan database. "This man, identified as a Boran tradesman, has no such clefts. What's more he appears to be of darker skin." Phlox looks at T'Pol. "Did the Vulcan's establish anything about these people's home planet? Where the different factions lived?"

T'Pol blinks, and makes a small motion with her head. "No, the _V'Mor_ had no interest in these species further than a peaceful negotiation to conduct research in their star system. Contact between them had been minimal."

"Is this Vulcan outpost still active?" asks the captain.

"No. The research ended some months ago. There was nothing of scientific interest to warrant their continuing."

Across the table I hear Trip murmur something about _typical Vulcans_ but if T'Pol hears it she shows no acknowledgement.

Archer shoots his engineer a look. "Please continue, Doctor."

"As I was saying, this man is a member of the Skori." Phlox pauses and brigs up further medical scans. "As are the remaining crew I have just finished examining. Which leads me to their cause of death. Certainly they all suffered bruises and burns; I think, for those of you who recovered the bodies, you will appreciate this as fact. But these injuries, though serious, were not life threatening, and those men and women on board certainly didn't die as a result from them. What caused their deaths was this…" 

On screen, we watch as a molecular pattern folds neatly in and around itself. Archer frowns, and says with surprise, "Oxygen?"

"Essentially, yes," says Phlox. "But this is not any oxygen you or I would be familiar with. You see, in the lungs of every body in that vessel I came across traces of an oxygen compound so pure that it must have been genetically modified."

"For what purpose?" the captain says, but I get the feeling he already knows the answer.

Phlox frowns. He seems unusually reluctant to divulge information. In the end he doesn't have to, because Malcolm provides the answer.

"Drug trafficking, sir."

There is a sudden clamour of voices. "All right people, let's focus here." Archer's voice raises itself above the others. He turns to Malcolm and Trip. "Tell me about the ship."

They eye each other before Trip shrugs. "Pretty cut and dry, Cap'n. They took some heavy beating, the hull plating almost disintegrated and the interior mechanics overloaded. I'd say that's where your burns occurred, Doc. Total duration of attack, ah…" Trip glances at Malcolm, "'bout ten, fifteen minutes? Yeah, I'd say they took around five or six really bad blows before whoever attacked them bade them farewell. Left the ship dead in the water."

"Did you get a look at the computer?"

"Yes and no, sir," says Malcolm, but I see his eyes flash with excitement. "The main tactical stations were blown to smithereens. But we managed to salvage the communications console and computer. To put it another way, we found the black box."

"The what?"

"Sorry, old aviation term."

Trip interrupts, waving a hand. "What Malcolm's tryin' to say is that we've scored all communications between our ship and whoever went for her. We handed it over to Hoshi just before the briefing."

Hoshi speaks before the captain has a chance. "I've left it running through the translation matrix." Then she smiles. "But I think I've already got a head start."

All eyes turn to her, and to the small device which she places on the table: the communicator which Phlox gave her earlier. Having not got a chance to look at it when Hoshi brought it to the bridge, I lean forward for a closer look. Hoshi says, "From what I could find out it seems to be some sort of personal data recorder. It had plenty of miscellaneous scientific data which I couldn't recognise, and, er, this…"

Hoshi thumbs the device and suddenly a holographic image hovers about sixty centimetres above the table, rotating slowly.

"Here's our owner. Well," her voice drops with sombreness, "here's what she would've looked like. Her name's Rayna and she is, as you correctly identified, Doctor, Skori. She comes from a city called Daccor, on a planet called Skoral, the Skori…and Boran, homeworld. But here's the really interesting thing. This device contains a huge amount of data on a drug which they call 'night vapour'. It's made up of a number of compounds, one of which…"

With a _blip_ the rotating woman is replaced by a scrolling sequence of characters and numbers, which hover like a silent cloud. Sitting up with excitement, Doctor Phlox points at a column. "There!" he exclaims. "That's our oxygen concentrate. Captain, may I take this data to sickbay for further analysis?"

Archer nods, and glances at Hoshi, who says, "I'll send it to you the minute we finish here." She then changes the image so that it resembles lines of alien text, raw and untranslated. "I haven't translated this fully," she says slowly, her tone slightly apologetic, "but here's a rough outline."

English words replace the alien characters. And as we read in silence, these words suspended so surreally in mid-air, I am suddenly taken back to a memory of my childhood. Nine years old, and I was forever getting into trouble with my tutor, running away from lessons and hiding in one of the shuttles. I'd sit in the pilot's chair which was too big for me to see completely over the console, and pretend I was zooming through space, dodging meteors and chasing stars. When my dad would find me, he wouldn't scold, but simply shake his head and say _That a good ambition, Travis, but you're too young, and space is very old. _Then a smile. _Besides, that seat's too big for you._ Beware of getting in too deep too soon, for some things are too vast to solve by yourself.

Rotating with agonising slowness are these words:

_Night Vapour the final sequence to Boran faction's elimination of the Skori genetic lineage. _

Naturalistic tendencies indeed. 

TBC


	6. Ten Ways to Irritate Vulcans

Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: Jazz

Rating: PG 

Disclaimer: Characters owned by Paramount. All liberties taken are the author's own.

Summary: Trip and T'Pol go undercover, and Trip overcomes his prejudices.

Author's Note: For some reason this story, which was intended to be a series of character studies with the plot lurking only in the background, has turned into a adventure revolving around illegal alien drug trafficking. I'm not sure how this happened, but it's kind of growing on me. So I intended Trip's story to get back into 'character mode', as it were. 

Extra Note: The author is ashamed to report that the shipper inside her was trying to get out…whether it succeeded the reader may judge.

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 6:

Ten Ways to Irritate Vulcans

Okay, so I'm sitting in the mess after a ten hour shift, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I get a feeling down the back of my neck. You know, like someone's watching you, but when you turn to look…nothing. Not a soul. So I sit there, my food getting cold, and wait. Count the ruts on the table, the serrated points on my knife, my reflection in the dip of the spoon. In the end I either finish eating in a kind of distracted void, or give up and shove my plate into the disposal unit.

I mean it's not like I'm paranoid. Geez, Malcolm'd beat me on that score any old day. But lately…I don't know. I seem to be turning into something I'm not. For instance, the other day Jon tapped me on the shoulder and I nearly jumped a foot. I swear, the look on his face…well, at least I'm good for a laugh. If I told him why I'm so wound up I bet he'd jokingly suggest I see a shrink. Oh yeah, _that's_ an image I'd pay to see: Trip Tucker, on the couch, babbling on about invisible people watching him eat tuna salad.

If you ask me…

She was doing it again, at Jon's briefing. Staring at my hands this time. Just because I hadn't had time to get cleaned up, so she spends half the meeting sitting there all prim and proper, with her little Vulcan nose twitching at the dust and dirt on my clothes, the engine oil on my skin, the cobwebs in my hair. Hell, Malcolm was almost as bad as me, but do you see him get the evil glare? _God._ That girl gets up my goat like no one's business. 

Mind you, I admit I _do_ bring in upon myself. Sometimes. Well, who could resist teasing such an upright, uptight, wound up like a caterpillar in a cocoon…Vulcan. I know I can't.

Can't I?

Maybe deep down I just want to see that caterpillar turn into a butterfly. 

What am I thinking? Aw hell. I think I might need that shrink after all…

****

To top it off, Jon pulls T'Pol and myself behind after the briefing's finished, and drops a bombshell.

"When we reach Skoral, I want you two to go undercover. Find out about this 'night vapour' while Hoshi and I visit the diplomats."

The job doesn't worry me; I'm all for finding out who was in cohort with the woman on the Skori ship. The message Hoshi translated was unsettling, to say the least. And if we can find out who's responsible before anything serious goes down, well, all the better. Not that we alone can reverse some obviously deeply set opinions, but at least we'll get all sides of the story. 

No, what I'm worried about is the fact that I won't be able to stop myself from getting into an argument with T'Pol. It's not like I set out to get her sprouting venom laced rules and regulations at me, or even worse, the silent treatment…I just can't help it. We clash, simple as that. I'm singing the major key while she's up the register in the minor.

But of course I say none of this to Jon, and instead nod along like a good little boy. _Coward._

Later in sickbay Phlox kits us out to look like two Skori traders, and I try to catch T'Pol's eye; let her know this job is just as serious to me as it is to her. But the doc tuts at me and says _stay still please, Mr Tucker._ So I do, I sit there and feel guilty.

"Okay, all done." I feel a mirror pressed into my hand. "You may open your eyes."

I'm not sure to whether to laugh or not at my reflection. I was curious, to say the least, as to how the doc was going to replicate a third eye, but there it is, sitting low on my forehead. Fashioned to lie half closed, I can see a grey-blue lens surrounded by milky white. It's strange to look at but fascinating all the same, if a little gruesome. "Amazing…" Elsewhere I have small tattoos around my jawline and across the bridge of my nose, and tiny feathers hang in various places in my hair. When I look at T'Pol the grin that was threatening to burst spills unashamedly from my mouth. We look like a pair of strange, three-eyed hippies, and I tell her just that. 

"That is an inaccurate description, Commander." T'Pol sits up and exits the room, her long wig swinging as if to mock the Vulcan stillness. "We are merely posing as traders, and have no connection with Earth."

I follow her out. "Don't worry, Rainbow of Vulcan, your secret's safe with me…"

****

Jon's plan is simple. When we get to Skoral, he and Hoshi will travel down as official ambassadors, and tell the heads of both factions what we know. We won't hide anything, which will essentially hand over all responsibility to their law enforcers and politicians. After all, we can't exactly take the law into our own hands. Therefore orders from the top brass are to tell the Skori and Boran all that we know, and let them handle it. Simple as that.

Except T'Pol and I will be doing some investigating of our own. We'll be invisible. In and out in a flash; they won't know we're there.

In the short hours it takes us to reach the planet I pack the shuttlepod, check and recheck the phase pistols, the communicators. I sit and twiddle my thumbs and generally get on everyone's nerves, while T'Pol mans her science station with a serene calm that somehow manages to quieten all those on the bridge until we have the alien planet on screen and we are silent and still, but all the time my palms are tingling with nervous energy and I'm itching to get going.

By the time a Skori ship arrives to pick up Jon and Hoshi, T'Pol and I have long since left.

****

When I look back, I think the first thing I'll remember is the smell.

Pungent and honey-sweet, the air is heavy with the scent of exotic spices, assaulting our noses with a sharp punch that hits immediately and lingers for a long time. Racks of dried organic produce line tables and hang from doorways, interspersed with wreaths of vibrant, hotly patterned fabrics. Not being very good with all things flowery and dried I sneeze. 

"Commander."

T'Pol's voice comes very close to my ear, and I'm suddenly glad that we decided to stick close together. It wouldn't take much to get separated. The streets of Daccor are packed with people; people talking, bargaining, laughing, arguing, embracing. I start to reply when another tickling rush silences me and I cover my nose and mouth to sneeze, and then look up to find brown eyes levelled at mine, filled with slight concern…and perhaps a touch of amusement. "Perhaps you should have taken an analgesic," T'Pol suggests as I sneeze again. Now some Skori are looking at me curiously. _Damn. We've been on this planet five minutes and already I'm attracting attention._

I cough and wipe my nose. "I'm fine, T'Pol." I pull gently at her arm and begin walking down the street. "Let's just keep movin', okay?"

Our plan is to find where this woman Rayna worked. Before we left I made certain we got all the information on this operation Hoshi could uncover, and we learnt some additional facts: that the group Rayna belonged to was called the Skori-Na faction, and its base of operations was somewhere in Daccor. Whether this group is the manufacturer or supplier of the drug, or both, we don't know. It could be neither, but at least we have someplace to start. Hoshi also gave us another name, that of a man to whom Rayna had composed, but not sent, a number of messages: Venn. Hoshi was of the opinion that this was a family relation, possibly a brother. So T'Pol and I make various enquiries about the streets, shops and bars; sticking to those who look likely to provide information, but importantly avoiding the Skori armsmen we see weaving intermittently though the crowds like dark ants among long grass. 

I say Skori because I have yet to see any Boran. But this _is_ a Skori city after all; for all I know they probably avoid each other like the plague. It would certainly go with what we've learnt about the two species so far.

Anyway, after hours of making discrete enquiries about the Skori-Na and Rayna and getting nowhere fast, we eventually wander into a bar, hidden way off down a side street; by this time equally in search of some refreshment as for clues. At least _I_ am – T'Pol'd never talk about something as incidental as being_ thirsty_. But I don't hear her disagree when I make the suggestion, so we go in. Inside it is dark and mercifully cool; a sharp relief to the heat of the close air in the streets, and while T'Pol moves off to an empty table I sidle up to the bar. After a cursory glance a few regulars make room, neither overtly curious nor hostile towards me, a stranger, to which I'm grateful. Stay inconspicuous, blend in, be invisible. It's been a cinch so far; we've obviously arrived at the height of the tourist season, but I have to remember that the more people there are the odds of finding our targets diminish unless we keep making enquiries. So I nod at the barman, and while he pours two drinks I casually mention Venn's name.

"Venn?" The Skori pulls at a tap with meaty hands and gives a chortle. "That troublemaker. What d'ya want with him, then?"

"I have some goods he wanted to inspect. Seedlings." I incline my head towards where T'Pol is sitting. "My, er, partner and I are traders. But I lost his contact details, and, well, Daccor's a big city."

The barman eyes me with suspicion. "It is a big city," he agrees, and places the glasses on the table. For a moment I think his suspicion is going to grow, but then he breaks into a crooked smile. "All right, you want Venn? Now let me think…he's usually – but no…" A pause, then he snaps his fingers. "I remember now: he mentioned going to his laboratory for a few days. He's a plant food scientist, makes _wonderful_ things grow out of thin air, though not literally of course." He chuckles, causing his middle eye to blink like a moth's wing. "But I'm sure you already know that."

I try to steer the conversation back on course. "And this laboratory is…"

"In the Danas section, just a few streets away. You'll recognise it immediately – all that green!"

I leave the barman laughing and take our drinks to T'Pol. Our table is in the corner, with views of both the bar's interior and the street outside. T'Pol eyes her drink warily; doesn't remove her hands from their neat position in her lap. She says, "Did the barman disclose any information?"

"He most certainly did," I reply, taking a long drink and immediately coughing half of it back up. "Damn," I narrow my eyes at the pale, frothing beverage, "that's some brew. Wonder if we could synthesise it back on Enterprise."

"It would _not_ be wise to become inebriated on an undercover operation." T'Pol's eyebrows flicker skyward with disapproval.

Almost instantly I feel my hackles rise. "Oh, lighten up, would ya? I was only kiddin'." My voice, grating at the burning sensation in my throat, rises slightly, and immediately I check myself, regretting the harshness of my tone. T'Pol shows no reaction but something shifts in her eyes and she breaks contact, looking out into the street. _Well done, Trip,_ I curse, _you just can't help risin' to the bait._ I take in a long breath through my nose, and in a calmer voice say, "Uh, the barman told me Venn was workin' in a lab a block or so from here. Apparently he's a plant food scientist."

"Then I suggest we pay him a visit." T'Pol gives me an even stare, and then to my surprise she lifts her drink. I watch with amusement as her nose hovers hesitantly over the lip of the glass, and while half of me wants to see her reaction, the gentleman in me decides to protect her…this time. When I reach over and pull at the handle my fingers brush hers slightly.

"I probably wouldn't, T'Pol…"

I remove my hand and she places the glass back down. Doesn't say a word, but I know I'm forgiven.

****

The Danas section is a little out of the tourist streets, so there is less dawdling and more purpose is the gaits of those walking the pavements. The barman with the meaty hands was right: the plant food laboratory stands out like an oasis in the middle of a desert. I press my nose up close to the glass plate inlaid into the door and see a wall of plants – lush, verdant leaves cover bench tops; veined in sunlight they curl delicately amongst one another as if a spider had dipped its silk in green. T'Pol surveys the outside of the building, which is basically non-descript, and makes a note on her padd, which she then returns to her vest.

I try the handle, and with a _hiss_ that lets out a waft of super-cooled air into the warm street, the door silently opens. "Shall we?" I offer T'Pol a gallant smile and hold it open, but she allows me nothing except a thinly disguised glint of amusement in her eyes and slips inside, leaving me to close the door behind us. Inside it is not only cool but also the air seems thinner. There is also a smell of chemicals, not strong but faintly nauseating all the same, and as T'Pol and I fan out around the room I take long breaths through the nose in order to acclimatise to the sickly aroma.

T'Pol motions to me that she is about to begin scanning and I should keep watch, to which I nod in reply and move towards the door and she discretely studies her padd. After a moment she looks up and I move to her side.

"Anything?"

She shakes her head. "While there are many chemicals stored here I cannot detect any traces of the oxygen compound." She tucks the scanner away out of sight. 

I rub the bridge of my nose, where the prosthetics are starting to itch and open my eyes to find T'Pol staring curiously at me. Feeling tired I snap at her unnecessarily.

"What?"

"Perhaps you would find it less irritating if you refrained from touching it."

"_Really?_ You think so? Gosh, I'd struggle through life if it weren't for your little _pearls_ of wisdom, T'Pol." Frustrated, I walk away and gaze intently at the plant life growing in various containers on the bench.

T'Pol doesn't miss a beat. "Sarcasm is entirely unproductive to our situation, Commander."

I'm about to retort when suddenly I hear the soft thud of footsteps approaching from further in the building. "That's fine, T'Pol, but this argument's gonna have'ta wait. We've got company." And I plant myself by the Vulcan's side, murmuring, "Jus' let me do the talkin'."

"I doubt _that_ will be difficult…" T'Pol's voice is soft, but I can do no more than glare at her before an inside door opens and a young Skori enters the room.

He is of average height and build, but finely boned. Brown-skinned with closely cropped hair, he is clothed in pale grey and white garments, finely weaved and shimmering with metallic hues. Scanning us in a second with tight-lidded brown eyes, he tilts a tattooed chin up in a half greeting. "Can I be of assistance?" His voice is light – youthful. And wary.

"I hope so," I reply. "We're looking for Venn. We're traders…we were told he'd be working here."

The Skori does not say anything for a moment, but continues to examine us. Finally he nods. "You've found him. I'm Venn."

Now T'Pol and I had already discussed what we'd say; that is, whether to continue with our masquerade or jump in immediately and reveal what we know about Rayna. Well, I say _discussed_, but it was more like an argument, and I have to say trying to reason with T'Pol while piloting through some pretty hairy atmospheric conditions is not something I'll rush into again in a hurry. Nevertheless we eventually came to a decision that we'd take the latter option, and tell Venn of Rayna's death, but only once we knew the nature of their relationship. So I say to him, "What's your connection with a woman named Rayna?"

Venn frowns, thrown for a moment. Without a word he walks to the outside door and peers through, finally drawing away and locking it. He does the same with the interior door. Beside me I feel T'Pol tense slightly and lift her hand to her phase pistol I know she has hidden in her clothes, but in some way I sense that Venn won't do anything to us. I can't explain why, I just do. The Skori meanwhile, having assured himself that we won't be overheard, motions us to sit at the middle bench.

"Are you her brother?" I ask, as we sit amongst the overflowing dishes and variegated leaves. 

"Yes." Venn's voice is suddenly thick with worry. "What do you know of her? Where is she?"

T'Pol speaks for the first time. "How long is it since you last heard from her?"

Venn picks up a pair of tweezer-like instruments and kneads them impatiently. "Almost a month. She was on a small freight vessel bound for the second planet. Delivering…something. As a favour. For me." He dips his head and stares T'Pol in the eye. "_Please_ tell me if you know any news of her."

When she speaks, T'Pol's voice is very low. Gentle. "We are not traders," she says, "nor are we members of your species. We are from a starship called Enterprise and have recently come from exploring the large nebula in your system. In that nebula we unexpectedly picked up a distress call; moreover a message from a vessel we later discovered had long since been damaged beyond repair. We searched this craft but found no survivors. Rayna was one of them, along with six other perished crew." She looks deeply into the Skori's eyes. "I am sorry for your loss."

I guess there are times when having a Vulcan around is a good thing…I'll say one thing for T'Pol; she'd make a fantastic counsellor. In the few seconds she just spent talking to Venn, by delivering the worst possible news she has somehow succeeded in calming the Skori's compulsive nerves. He breaks her eye contact and gazes off somewhere in the distance, but his hands no longer move in unsettled motions. After a moment, when the silence around us seems to have defeated eternity and I open my mouth to break it, Venn begins to speak in a voice so low that both T'Pol and I have to lean forward to hear.

"I think…" He breaks off, hesitantly. When he looks up he seems to have become no more than a child, and I realise that I mistook his maturity upon our meeting; this Skori must barely be a teenager. "I think," Venn starts again, forcing strength into his voice, "deep in my heart I was expecting this. It was going to happen no matter what I did. _They_ knew she would do anything for me; how close we were. It was a ploy, and they said _she is just a messenger – no one will know what she is carrying._ And she didn't. I never told her the truth…she thought…" Venn presses a palm against his forehead, and whispers into the cool air. "She was innocent, but they found out about her connections…and eliminated her."

I glance at T'Pol. _Her connections?_ And I say to him, "What's so important about Rayna's connections? You said she didn't know what she was carrying."

Venn looks at me and blinks. "No," he replies. "You don't understand. It wasn't Rayna they were trying to get to. It was her attachment to a man high up in the Skori circle. This man is said by many to be our next governor. Rayna is…was in love with him. But they made a mistake – they only found out about this attachment after she left on the transport, and thought she was going to double cross them. But she was innocent, she knew nothing, would tell nothing…" He closes his eyes. "She was innocent," he repeats, more forcefully.

"Venn, whom are you referring to when you speak of 'they'?" asks T'Pol. "Do you mean the Skori-Na?"

Venn says nothing but stands up, as do T'Pol and I. The Skori walks to the other side of the room, and I share a look with T'Pol. It is a look voicing in our minds a single thought. She understands, and speaks aloud.

"Can you take us to the Skori-Na?"

A nod, sharp and resolved. "I can. I will." Venn meets our gaze and there is understanding in his eyes, still and deep as the earth.

TBC


End file.
